Ex  Libris 
ISAAC  FOOT 


SOLDIERS  OF  THE 
LIGHT 

BY 

HELEN  GRAY  CONE 


BOSTON 

RICHARD  G.  BADGER 

THE  GORHAM  PRESS 
I9II 


Copyright,  1910,    by  Helen  Gray  Cono 


All  Rights  Reserved 


Many  of  the  poems  included  in  this  volume  are 
used  through  the  courteous  permission  of  the  edi 
tors  of  The  Century  Magazine,  The  Churchman, 
The  Atlantic  Monthly,  and  Scribner's  Magazine, 
where  they  originally  appeared. 


THE  GORHAM  PRESS,  BOSTON,  U.  S.  A. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The  Soldiers  of  the  Light 5 

The  Third  Day  at  Gettysburg 7 

Abraham  Lincoln:     February   12,   1909 33 

Greencastle  Jenny:     A  Ballad  of  'Sixty-Three  38 

By  the  Blockhouse  on  the  Hill:    A  Ballad  of 

'Ninety-Eight 40 

The  Admiral's  Story 42 

Death  After  War 45 

The  Riddle  of  Wreck 46 

The  Common  Street 47 

Calnan's  Christmas 48 

Guion 50 

Poverty  Row 52 

The  Inn  of  the  Star 54 

Marina  Sings 55 

The  King's  Diamond 58 

Death-Tryst 61 

The  Iris-Bridge 63 

Desire  of  Fame 64 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Rose-Rent 65 

The  Frigate-Ghost 66 

Fair  England 69 

To  the  Memory  of  Richard  Watson  Gilder. .  71 


"Why  of  War,  O  thou  that  lovest  rather 
Peace  of  roses  in  a  rain-sweet  garden, 
Peace  of  moonlit  silver-heaving  waters, 
All  the  lovely  looks  of  little  children? 

What  strange   mandate 
Bids  thee  sing  of  Wart  who  lovest  these  things? 

"How  of  War,  O  faint-heart,  thou  that  grievest 

Over  every  gentle  creature  wounded, 

All  soft  eyes  of  pain  and  puzzled  sorrow, 

All  the  lithe  limbs  marred,  the  wild  wings  broken? 

What  black   magic 

Makes    thee   brood   on    War,   who    dreadest   these 
things? 

"Is  it  but  the  haunting  of  the  bugles, 
Floating  memories  of  the  war-time  bugles 
Blowing  over  those  far  fields  of  childhood, 
Pleasant  in  the  foolish  ear  of  childhood, 

When  the  sword-hilt 
Seemed  but  made  to  shine  and  hold  a  jewel?" 

Then  the  inward  Voice  that  gave  the  mandate, — • 
Bade  me  sing  of  battle, — bade  me  answer'. 
Well  I  know  the  symbol  of  the  sword-hilt, 
Know  the  Cross  of  sacrifice  and  service; 

See  the  heart's-blood 
Burning  where  the  child  beheld  the  jewel. 

I  have  hated  with  the  perfect  hatred 
All  the  work  of  Hell  in  all  the  ages; 
Hated  all  the  hate  and  all  the  horror; 
Yet  the  Vision  of  the  Face  of  faces, 

God-in-Manhood, 
Shines  through  Hell,  and  I  have  seen  the  Vision. 


In  this  rubric,  lo,  the  Past  is  lettered: 
Strike  the  red  words  out,  we  strike  the  glory. 
Leave  the  sacred  color  on  the  pages, 
Pages  of  the  Past  that  teach  the  Future. 

On  that  scripture 
Yet  shall  young  souls  take  the  oath  of  service. 

God  end  War!  but  when  brute  War  is  endedt 
Yet  there  shall  be  many  a  noble  soldier, 
Many  a  noble  battle  worth  the  winning, 
Many  a  hopeless  battle  worth  the  losing. 

Life  is  battle, 
Life  is  battle,  even  to  the  sunset. 

Soldiers  of  the  Light  shall  strive  forever, 

In  the  wards  of  pain,  the  ways  of  labor, 

In  the  stony  deserts  of  the  city, 

In  the  hives  where  greed  has  housed  the  helpless, 

Patient,  valiant, 
Fighting  with  the  powers  of  death  and  darkness. 

Make  us  mingle  in  that  heavenly  warfare; 
Call  us  through  the  throats  of  all  brave  bugles 
Blown  on  fields  foregone  by  lips  forgotten; 
Nerve  us  with  the  courage  of  lost  comrades, 

Gird  us,  lead  us, 
Thou,  O  Prince  of  Peace  and  God  of  Battles! 


THE  THIRD  DAY  AT  GETTYSBURG 
I 

Stand  we  awhile  at  gaze,  in  the  Place  of  the  Bat 
tle  of  Battles: 

High  on  the  hill  at  the  south,  where  over  the  fair- 
lying  farmland 

Warren  keeps  watch  in  bronze,  here  under  the  sky 
of  the  summer 

Stand  we  awhile  at  gaze,  far-scanning  the  roads  and 
the  ridges, 

Doubtful  that  such  things  were. 

Oh,  sweet  with  the  wafts  of  the  wildrose, 

Sweet  is  the  breath  of  the  summer,  the  hushed  spirit 
lapping  and  lulling! 

Man  feels  near  to  the  kind  red  earth;  as  her  nurs 
ling  she  draws  him 

Close,  ah  close,  to  the  fragrant  warmth  of  her  In 
dian  bosom. 

Deep  he  drinks  of  life;  and  death  is  a  dream  in  the 
distance. 

Rare  is  the  sweet  of  the  summer;  the  good  world's 
bounty  and  beauty 

Such  as  they  saw  and  lost,  who  bought  us  our 
peace  with  their  passion. 

Such,  on  the  great  Three  Days  of  the  great  Third 
Year  of  the  war-time, 

Lay  this  pleasant  land,  with  the  long  South  Moun 
tain  to  westward ; 

Blue  these  billowing  hills  circled  it,  friendly  en 
folded, 

Lucent  in  sun,  or  dark  with  the  shadows  of  clouds 
floating  over; 

7 


Silvered   with   ghostly   gray  of   the   rains,    in   their 

soft-footed  marches 
Melting  away  and  passing,  and  leaving  the  blue  in 

the  sunlight. 
So  the  farmland  lay,  with  the  yellow  gleam  of  its 

wheatfields, 
Green  of  the  standing  corn,  a-glisten  in  beauteous 

battalions, 
Pastures  with  dreaming  cattle,  and  tawny  streams 

where  they  loiter, 
Dark-green    orchard    slopes,    and    the   small    white 

houses  of  farmers. 
So  lay  the  little  town,  with  its  brick-paved  walks 

and  its  alleys, 
Garden-glimpses  fair,  with  the  faint-blue  hills  for 

a  background, 
Over  the  whitewashed   fences   the   rosy  hollyhocks 

leaning; 
Fate-shadowed,   sleeping  town,   in  its  listless  grasp 

as  it  slumbered  . 
Holding  the  reins  of  power,  the  gathered  reins  of 

the  roadways 
Stretched  to  the  north  and  south,  to  the  northwest 

and  northeast  and  southeast, 

Roadways  half  a  score,  in  the  grasp  of  the  fate- 
shadowed  sleeper, — 

Reins  of  power  indeed,  should  a  strong  hand  sud 
denly  seize  them! 

What  strong  hand  should  seize?  Swift-reaching, 
and  sinewed  with  iron, 

Masterful  hand  of  Lee,  great  Captain,  intrepid  in 
vader? 

Far-away  cities  feared.  Or,  haply,  hand  new  to  the 
wielding 

8 


One  huge  host  as  a  sword,  untried  in  its  strength 
or  its  weakness, 

Unknown  hand  of  Meade,  at  the  southward  uncer 
tainly  groping? 

Stirred  with  a  dream  of  dread  was  the  little  town 
as  it  slumbered  ; 

Sudden  it  started  and  woke. 

— Through    the    hush    of    the    young,    hot 
morning 

One  sharp  shot,  and  another — and   born  was   the 
Battle  of  Battles! 

Long  had  the  good  land  lain  in  the  sun  and  the 
rain,  with  its  ridges, 

Rich  broad   fields  for  the  farmer,  and  hills  dark- 
fledged  with  the  forests; 

Yet  was  the  end  ordained  of  the  old  earth's  writh 
ing  and  travail 

Neither    the   breathing   beauty   of   grainfields,    nor 
wealth  of  the  harvest, 

Neither  the  brooding  charm  of  the  wood,  nor  the 
trees  for  the  builder; 

Not  for  these  was  the  earth-pang;  for  Pain,   for 
Pain  sacrificial 

Offered    to    God;    for    the    altar     whereon    Man 
blindly  or  wisely 

Laid,  for  the  Faith  that  was  in  him,  his  body  born 
of  a  woman, 

Laid,  in  his  passion  of  service,  the  life  of  his  own 
blood-brother, — 

Even  for  that  Altar  august  had  the  ridges  and  hills 
from  aforetime 

Waited,  elect.     (So  of  old,  under  Syrian  azure,  and 
burning 

Stars   of   that   ancient   land,    grew   a   great   Tree, 
branched  like  another; 
9 


Soared  to  its  height,  and  waited,  elect  for  the  Cross 

of  all  crosses. 
Now  was  arrived  the  hour,  and  the  stern  supreme 

dedication, 
Sealing  the  brow  of  the  land  for  the  Place  of  the 

Battle  of  Battles. 


II 


Twice  had  the  sun  gone  down  on  the  conflict  as  yet 

undetermined. 
Two  fierce  days  were  done,  and  the  marred  earth 

cumbered  with  horror, 
Horror  of  soulless  pain  of  the  beasts  that  perish 

unknowing, 
Horror  of  human  ruin,  the  shattered  sheaths  of  the 

spirit, 
Horror  men  pray  to  forget,  and  the  tongue  refuses 

to  tell  it. 
Two  proud  days  were  done,  that  shall  shine  with 

the   splendors   of   valor 
Out  of  the  night  of  the  past,  and  live  with  the  life 

of  the  nation: 
Splendors   that  crowd   like  stars — how   the   names 

press  faster  and  faster! 
Splendors    that   melt    like   stars    in    the   milkwhite 

highway  of  heaven, 
Fame  without  name,  and  the  deeds  remembered  of 

doers   forgotten. 
Two   strange   days   were   done;    for   Fate   on   the 

echoing  anvil, 
Clashing  with   blow   upon   blow,   had   fashioned   a 

strength  out  of  failure, 
Craftily  forging  in  fire  and  clangor  the   Line  of 

the  Union, 

10 


Battle-line  hard  to  break.  It  was  curved  like  the 
hook  of  the  fisher, 

Rough  Gulp's  Hill  the  barb,  and  the  Hill  of  the 
Graves  was  the  curving; 

Straight  as  a  shaft  it  stretched  to  the  tawny  stream 
at  the  southward, — 

Running  then  red, — and  the  rocks  of  the  rude- 
piled  Den  of  the  Devil, 

Round-Top  the  Less,  and  the  flank  of  the  Greater, 
fledged  with  the  forest, 

Fortresses  fit  for  the  Left.  So  the  Line  had  been 
forged  out  of  failure, 

Battle-line  hard  to  break. 

Yet  sick  were  the  souls  of  the  leaders, 

Burdened  with  pity  and  loss;  the  field  with  un 
speakable  anguish 

Groaned  to  the  large  clear  moon;  might  the  army 
abide  such  a  morrow? 

Cautious  courageous  Meade,  not  playing  with  lives 
as  with  counters, 

Held  his  commanders  in  council,  retracing,  un 
weaving  the  war-web, 

Shifting  the  fiery  threads.  At  the  last,  it  was 
brought  to  the  question. 

Was  it  retreat  that  slept  in  the  brazen  throats  of 
the  bugles? 

Each  after  each  answered  No;  Newton  and  Gib 
bon  and  Birney, 

Williams  and  Sedgwick  and  Sykes,  Slocum  and 
Howard  and  Hancock, 

Soul-sick  with  pity  and  loss,  yet  steadily  acting  the 
soldier, 

Man  after  man  answered  No.  They  were  all  one 
will;  and  their  Captain 


II 


Gripped  the  huge  host  as  a  sword,  that  was  utterly 

his  for  the  wielding. 
— So  the  warm  bright  night  drew  on  to  the  Day 

of  decision. 

Ill 

Day  crept  wan  on  the  world.    'Twas  the  hour  when 

the  birds  in  the  branches 

One  after  one  awake,  in  the  dewy  cool  and  the  dim 
ness, 
Small  sweet  voices  of  joy,  praising  the  sunlight  that 

shall  be. 
Silvery  the  hour,  and  a  semblance  of  death  in  the 

birth  of  the  morning; 
Sacred  the  sunless  hour ;  now  rent,  as  the  veil  of  the 

temple, 

All  that  silver  spell.     In  the  dewy  cool  of  the  cov 
erts 
Sounded  no  voices  of  birds;    but  the  whistling  hiss 

of  the  bullet. 
Ruffling  volley  on   volley,   and  yell  of  the   South, 

and  the  angry 
Roar  of  the  strong  hurrah  from  the  throats  of  the 

soldiers  of  Slocum, 
There  on  the  rough  sheer  steep,  in  the  thick  of  the 

Gulp's  Hill  woodlands, 
There  on  the  rock-strewn  plain,  till  the  sun  stared 

hot  on   the  struggle, 
Jealously   battling  to  wrest,   from   the  grasp  of   a 

blindfold  victor, 
Vantage  but  half  discerned,  and  a  foothold  found 

in  the  darkness : 
Brave   was    the   blindfold    victor,    and    fiercely   he 

clung  to  his  foothold; 

12 


Almost  he  groped  to  the  prize,  to  the  gleam  of  the 

hard  white  highway 
On  to  Baltimore  sweeping,  the  one  sure  outlet  of 

safety  ; 

Almost   he   chanced   with   his   hand   on   the   close- 
hoarded  power  of  the  powder: 
Brave  and  blind,  or  beholding  too  late,  on  the  plain 

and  the  hillside, 
Seven  vain  hours  he  fought;    then  reeling  let  go 

the  advantage, 
Fell  back  panting  and  foiled.     Once  again  in  its 

rugged   intrenchments 
Rested  the  Corps  of  the  Star;    on  the  field  rested 

many  forever. 
So  sped  the  morn  on  the  Right. 

IV 

But  the  Left  lay  still,  as  enchanted : 
Two  huge  armies  outstretched,  and  between  them 

the  undulant  valley 
Basking    broad,    as    asleep;    only    now    and    again 

through  the  quiet 
Ripped  the  skirmishers'  rifles,  a  crackle  increasing, 

then  ceasing; 
Now  and  again  from  the  Right  came  the  rolling 

rumors  of  battle 
Echoing  far,  but  disturbed  not  the  dream  of  the 

armies  enchanted: 

Ceased  at  the  last  all  sound,  and  the  magical  slum 
ber  was  deepened. 
So  the  bright  hot  day  drew  on  to  the  noontide,  and 

passed  it. 

Scarce  had  the  old-fashioned  clocks,  in  the  farm 
houses  hushed,  apprehensive, — 
13 


Equably  telling  the  tale  of  the  fire-winged  minutes 
that  fleeted 

Bearing  the  death  of  men,  as  in  days  of  peace,  when 
the  minutes 

Bore  but  the  blessing  of  toil,  and  a  sleep  with  its 
face  to  the  morrow, 

— Scarce  had  the  clocks  struck  One,  when  the  deep- 
toned  boom  of  the  cannon, — 

Hark,  it  was  twice! — on  the  ridge  that  was  held 
by  the  Southron,  gave  signal : 

Boom,  boom,  boom  after  boom  to  the  right,  to  the 
left,  in  the  centre; 

Cloud,  cloud,  cloud  after  cloud,  white  smoke-clouds 
that  sprang  out  and  hung  there, 

Massing,  concealing,  yet  severed  again  and  again 
by  the  flame-gush. 

Now  from  the  heights  of  the  Union  the  batteries 
thundered  their  answer, 

Boom,  boom,  boom  after  boom,  from  the  right  and 
the  left  and  the  centre, 

Surf  on  a  winter-bound  coast,  a  tempestuous  roar 
ing  incessant. 

Piercingly  rose  as  a  cry,  on  that  ground  of  vast 
sound  elemental, 

Scream  of  the  travailing  shells  as  they  burst  o'er  the 
cloud-covered  valley. 

Trembled  the  solid  earth,  as  she  thrills  in  the  throes 
of  the  earthquake; 

Prickled  the  sulphurous  air  with  the  demon-breath 
of  the  powder; 

Fainted  the  hearts  of  men  at  the  endless  unbearable 
clamor ; 

Filled  were  the  heaven  and  the  earth  with  the 
clang  of  that  duel  of  iron: 

Such  they  beheld  not  before,  and  heard  not, — a  com 
bat  of  giants! 


What  did  it  mean  on  the  earth?     Stark  terror  and 
blood  and  confusion; 

Shriek  of  the  battery-horses,  and  hell-blaze  of  cais 
sons  exploding; 

Reel  of  the  torn  cannoneer  as  he  suddenly  drops 
by  his  cannon, 

Spring  of  the  quick  volunteer  to  snatch  from  his 
dead  hand  the  rammer; 

Orderlies   galloping  past,   and    a   rumor   of   some 
what  a-brewing: 

Crouching  of  soldiers  in  gray,  at  the  rear,  in  the 
underwoods'  flicker, — 

Charge?  we  shall  charge  by  and  by?  then  a  pipe 
of  Virginia  tobacco! 

Over  their  heads  as  they  lie,  by  the  trunks  of  the 
fallen  trees  pillowed, 

Jesting  and  resting  an  hour,  come  showering  the 
boughs  of  the  saplings. 

Crouching  of  soldiers  in  blue,  at  the  front,  by  the 
walls  and  the  fences, 

Waiting    a    charge — will    they    charge?    and    the 
brown  fingers  lock  on  the  musket; 

Sharply  a  rifle-gun  bolt  rips  up  the  ground  under 
neath  him. 

There  in  the  field  on  the  slope  is  a  bellow  of  suf 
fering  cattle, 

Out  by  the  farmgate  yonder,  a  tangle  and  mangle 
of  horses; 

Shells  through  the  farmhouse  roof,  where  the  green 
moss  grew  on  the  shingles; 

Shattered  the  apple-tree  now,  where  the  robin  would 
sing  at  the  sunset; 

Shall  there  be  song  again,  in  a  world  given  over  to 
devils? 

Shattered  the  stones  of  the  dead,  and  about  them 
the  shapes  of  the  dying; 
15 


Boom,  boom,  boom  after  boom  to  the  right,  to  the 

left,  in  the  centre, 
Endless — will  it  be  endless?  and  how  shall  the  spirit 

endure  it? 

What  did  it  mean  in  the  heaven?  Ah  surely,  black 
lips  of  the  cannon, 

Surely  you  spake  in  your  wrath,  and  the  soul  of  the 
world  understood  you! 

Else  it  were  horror  indeed,  and  the  blind  brute 
rage  of  the  jungle, 

Earth  returning  to  slime,  and  the  hissing  and  tear 
ing  of  dragons! 

Guns  of  the  Gettysburg  heights,  ye  spake,  in  your 
awful  contending, 

Words  ye  spake  through  the  cloud,  with  august  ora 
cular  voices, 

Mighty  reverberant  watchwords  of  Titan-forces  in 
conflict : 

Crying,  "The  feuds  of  States!"  and  replying,  "The 
peace  of  a  Nation !" 

Crying,  "The  sundered  stars!"  and  replying,  "The 
heavens  in  their  clusters 

Led  in  the  lines  of  law,  and  linked  in  their  dif 
fering  glory 

Star  unto  star  to  the  end,  until  God  folds  them  up 
as  a  vesture!" 

Crying,  "The  old-time  pride,  and  the  chivalrous 
grace  and  the  splendor, 

Feudal  rule  of  the  Few,  and  a  serfdom  meet  for  the 
Many!" 

Thundering  out  of  the  cloud,  as  the  Voice  on  the 
summit  of  Sinai, 

"Nay!  But  the  larger  Hope,  and  the  limitless 
future  of  Manhood!" 

16 


These  were  the  words  that  ye  uttered,  O  hot  black 
lips  of  the  cannon, 

Catching  them  up  from  the  lips  of  the  orators  fallen 
on  silence, 

Voices  of  lion-like  men,  in  senates  no  longer  re 
sounding; 

Now  the  debate  was  yours:  and  above  it,  the  Ar 
biter  waited! 


Slowly  the  men  of  the  South,  outstretched  in  the 
underwoods'  flicker, 

Jesting  and  resting  an  hour, — the  close-coupled, 
war-welded  comrades, 

Hollow-cheeked  veteran  boys,  unsubduable  gaunt 
gray  elders, 

Garbed  in  gray  or  in  butternut-brown,  the  old  rus 
tical  earth-hue, — 

Slowly,  half-stunned,  they  arose,  made  aware  of  a 
lull  in  the  tumult. 

Then  through  the  ranks  as  they  closed,  like  a  thrill 
through  a  tense-drawn  bowstring, 

Passed  a  wild  whisper  of  joy.  Is  it  true?  are  the 
batteries  crippled 

There  on  the  Hill  of  the  Graves,  and  the  long  ridge 
held  by  the  Union? 

Silenced  at  last  and  spent?  and  the  Gray  Chief 
raises  his  field-glass, 

He  of  the  ardent  eyes  and  the  beard  with  its  gra 
cious  silver, 

Leader  beloved,  Lee,  in  designing  and  daring  a  mas 
ter. 

Gone  from  the  Hill  of  the  Graves  are  the  guns  with 
their  merciless  menace ; 


Now  from  the  smoke-reeking  ridge  the  voices 
gigantic  respond  not : 

This  is  the  moment  indeed ;  it  is  big  with  the  fate 
of  the  battle! 

Well  are  they  skilled  what  to  do,  his  war-seasoned 
faithful  commanders, 

Longstreet,  and  Ambrose  Hill,  and  Pickett  the  sol 
dier  intrepid 

Leading  invincible  veterans,  chosen,  the  flower  of 
the  army. 

(Yet,  O  that  Jackson  were  here,  with  his  blue  eyes 
wild  and  exalted, 

Soldier-saint  of  the  South,  to  be  sharer  of  all  that 
is  coming, 

As  in  the  past  he  shared  triumph  and  council  and 
crisis, 

Bivouac-fire  in  the  pines,  and  the  sleep  on  the  brown 
pine-needles — 

O  that  he  too  were  here,  who  has  crossed  the  River, 
and  sweetly 

Rests  in  no  earthly  shade,  and  returns  not  to  con 
flict  or  council!) 

This  is  the  moment  indeed:  it  is  big  with  the  fate 
of  the  battle 

That  is  big  with  the  fate  of  the  world ! 

Drawing  rein  at  the  station  of  Longstreet, 
Eagerly  springs  from  the  saddle  George  Pickett  the 

soldier  intrepid, 
Face  fire-red  with  his  hope  and  his  haste,  and  the 

lion-shaggy 
Mane  of  his  cavalier  locks  tossed  with  the  rush  of 

his  riding. 
"Charge?  do  we  charge?"     So  he  stands. 

— As  over  the  slope  of  a  mountain 
18 


Glooms  a  shadow  broad,  and  the  birds  in  the  forest 
stop  singing, 

Darkens  with  secret  foreboding  the  visage  of  Long- 
street  the  leader; 

Shadow  hangs  on  his  soul,  and  his  lips  are  locked ; 
yet  reluctant 

Bows  he  his  beard  on  his  breast. 

It  is  done ;  and  the  moment  returns  not. 

VI 

Crouching  meanwhile  at  the  front,  by  the  low  stone 
walls  and  the  fences 

There  on  the  opposite  ridge,  the  soldiers  of  Hays 
and  of  Gibbon, — 

Every  man  soldierly-proud  of  the  Trefoil  he  wore 
on  his  cap-crown, 

Were  it  of  white  or  of  blue,  the  Trefoil  that  told 
he  was  Hancock's, — 

Crouching  expectant  and  grim,  in  the  roar  of  that 
great  cannonading, 

Broke  into  cheer  after  cheer:  with  the  flag  of  the 
Trefoil  behind  him, 

Rode  the  corps-commander,  reviewing  the  line  of 
his   legions, 

Knowing  men's  need  of  a  man.     In  the  fury  of 
sound,  and  the  frantic 

Shriek  of  the  battery  horses,  and  hell-blaze  of  cais 
sons  exploding, 

Reared   the  black  charger  he   rode;    yet  persisted 
the  resolute  rider, 

Masterful,  mounted  afresh;   and  along  the  line  ran 
the  murmur, 

Flame  on  a  dry  field's  edge,  "Hancock,  it's  Han 
cock!"  and  freshly 

Kindled  the  cheer  as  he  passed. 
19 


So  they  lay  in  the  line,  with  the  muskets 

Clutched  in  the  hard  hands,  ready;  the  men  of 
New  York  and  New  Jersey, 

Delaware's  sons,  and  Maine's,  and  the  close-coupled, 
war-welded  comrades, 

Stalwart  Michigan  men  and  the  soldiers  of  old  Mas 
sachusetts. 

There  were  the  very  sons  of  the  well-loved  soil  they 
defended, 

Stretched  by  the  low  stone  wall  and  the  dark  little 
cluster  of  oak-trees. 

There  were  the  lads  of  Vermont,  fresh  to  the  field, 
with  equipments 

Glittering, — gallant  to  see  as  the  folds  of  a  clear- 
colored  ensign 

Newly  upreared  on  the  staff,  floating  out  stainless 
and  splendid; 

There  too,  knit  in  its  place,  was  the  shred  of  the 
First  Minnesota, 

Left  from  the  Second  Day's  charge  when  it  flung 
itself  in  as  a  stop-gap, 

Stirring  to  see  as  the  shred  of  the  battle-burnt  col 
ors  left  clinging 

Blackened  and  rent,  to  the  staff,  and  advanced  in 
the  forefront  of  danger. 

Nay,  nor  alone  the  shoots  of  the  rooted  stock  of  the 
fathers 

Stood  in  that  hedge  of  war;  but  the  aliens,  the  sons 
of  adoption, 

Loyal  to  death  to  the  land  of  their  love,  as  a  mys 
tical  Mother, 

Virgin,  glorious,  mild,  immortal,  a  presence  to  die 
for! 

There  in  the  line  of  defence  was  the  flag  Garibaldi 
once  planted 


Proud  on  the  ramparts  of  Rome;  and  the  bright- 
green  beautiful  banner, 

Banner  of  glory  and  grief,  that  has  blown  in  the 
breezes  of  battle 

Over  all  fields  of  the  world,  to  beckon  high  hearts 
to  the  onset; 

Yet  was  uplifted  supreme  the  Flag  of  the  hope  of  the 
future, 

Set  with  the  splendors  of  stars,  and  striped  with  the 
heart's-blood  of  heroes. 

So  they  lay  in  the  line,  with  the  hard  hands  clutch 
ing  the  muskets : 

Men  of  the  farm  and  the  forge  and  the  carpenter's 
bench  and  the  engine; 

Men  from  the  counter  and  desk;  and  the  teacher 
was  there  with  his  pupils; 

There  the  bold-eyed  firemen,  the  turbulent  lads  of 
the  cities ; 

There  the  men  of  the  shore, — they  had  left  the 
broad  nets  and  the  fishing; 

There  the  men  of  the  axe, — they  had  left  the  tall 
trees  in  the  forest. 

What  was  it  drew  them  away  from  their  labor  and 
love  and  contentment, 

Buying  and  selling  and  scheming,  and  building,  and 
yoking  the  oxen? 

Made  them  willing  to  fling  down  Life,  the  myste 
rious  jewel, 

All  the  lovely  and  strange  thing  that  it  is,  with  the 
pleasant 

Light  of  the  kindly  sun,  and  the  sweet  of  the  grass 
in  the  summer, 

Salt  of  the  large  sea-breeze,  and  the  mild  stars 
shining  in  heaven, 

21 


Joy  of  the  free  whole  body,  and  wonderful  wafts  of 

the  spirit? 
All  a  man  hath  will  he  give  for  his  life, — but  his 

life  for  his  duty! 
This  is  the  touchstone  of  manhood,  the  swift  and 

the  final  election, 

Test  of  the  heart  that  is  true  to  some  lofty  and  ulti 
mate  brightness 
Secretly  set  above  self;    at  its  blindest,  shall  God 

not  accept  it? 
Ah,  but  how  blessed  are  they, — not  summoned  by 

voices  misleading, 
Lured  of  the  marsh-light,  and  tricked  to  the  true 

defence  of  a  falsehood, — 
Who  with  their  measure  of  power,  conscious,  half- 

conscious,  unconscious, 
Work  the  Eternal  Will,   in  the  chaos  a  force  of 

salvation, 
Motes  of  the  dust  as  it  streams,  yet  touched  with 

the  light  of  God's  purpose! 


VII 


So  they  lay  in  the  line,  as  the  discord  diminished, 
and  almost 

Seemed  as  a  silence,  to  sense  that  was  drowned  with 
the  sound  of  the  cannon. 

Hung  on  the  spirits  of  all  men  a  prescience  of  some 
thing  impending 

Great  and  strange,  as  at  times  when  thick  darkness 
possesses  the  noonday; 

Yet  was  the  sky  most  bright  with  its  burning  azure ; 
and  strangely 

Shifted  the  wind,  and  lifted  the  lingering  smoke  as 
a  curtain; 

22 


Reek  ot  the  powder  drew  off,  and  the  valley  was 

bare  and  apparent, 
Dip  of  the  hollowing  plain,  and  the  trampled  green 

of  the  cornfields. 

Suddenly  out  of  the  wood,  with  a  swift  and  reso 
lute  movement, 

Over  the  long  slow  slope  of  the  hollowing  plain  to 
the  eastward, 

Swept  the  tried  Virginians,  the  war-seasoned  soldiers 
of  Pickett. 

Swinging  with  springing  step,  in  the  distance  a 
rhythmic  pulsation, 

Blithely  they  marched  as  those  who  march  in  a 
holiday  pageant; 

Lightly  they  marched,  and  afar  the  foemen  that 
looked  on  them  loved  them. 

Rode  at  the  head  of  the  column  Pickett  the  soldier 
intrepid, 

Proudly,  with  cap  a-slant,  and  cavalier  locks  free- 
floating  ; 

Rode  with  their  brave  brigades  Armistead,  Kem- 
per,  and  Garnett. 

Joined  the  advance  on  the  left,  Pettigrew  leading 
and  Trimble, 

Regiments  grim  and  seared  with  the  scorch  of  the 
two  days'  battle, 

Bleeding  and  torn  with  loss,  but  prompt  to  the 
fiery  renewal : 

Mississippians  fierce,  and  the  undismayed  Tennes- 
seans, 

Valorous  Alabamans,  and  soldiers  of  North  Caro 
lina. 

Onward  the  long  wave  rolled,  steadily,  steadily 
onward, 


Gray  wave  glinting  with  steel,  and  the  battle-flags 
floating  above  it. 

So  have  you  seen  on  the  shore  the  line  of  the  bil 
low  advancing, 

Fateful,  unhasting,  sure,  to  the  charge  uprearing 
exultant 

Threaten  the  land  with  its  strength ;  from  its  crest, 
for  an  exquisite  instant, 

Foam-bows  backward  stream, — in  the  next,  it  has 
vanished  forever! 

Onward  the  long  wave  rolled,  steadily,  steadily  on 
ward, 
Over  the  hollowing  plain,  and  the  trampled  green 

of  the  cornfields. 
Stood    the   two   armies   at   gaze;   until,    from    the 

stronghold  of  Howard, 
Hill  of  the  Graves,  and  the  ridge,  and  the  shoulder 

of  Round-Top  the  Lesser, 
Burst  the  leashed  lightnings  anew,   and  the  roars 

of  the  thunder  ironic! 
Forth  from  their  hot  black  dens  in  the  gorge  of  the 

cavernous  cannon, — 
Guns  new-thrust  into  place, — freed  for  the  service 

appointed, 

Tigerish,  Death  and  Fire  leaped  on  the  open  arena. 
One  low  sound  was  heard  through  the  tumult,  and 

deeply  remembered, 
Human,  the  moan  of  life  mowed  as  the  grass  of  the 

meadow. 
One  sharp   shudder   ran   through   the  host  of   the 

South,  the  beholders. 
(Over  the  mind  of  the  Chief  a  memory,  thrilling 

electric, 

24 


Flashed,  the  revenge  of  Time:  and  he  saw  the  blue- 
coated  battalions 

Move  through  the  winterly  light  of  the  cruel  Thir 
teenth  of  December 

Up  to  the  sunken  wall  that  was  topped  with  the 
rifles  of  Georgia: 

Stubborn  and  stern  they  came,  to  pile  the  bleak  field 
with  their  bodies. 

He,  who  had  looked  on  that  day,  looked  now  on  his 
own,  his  Virginians, 

Drinking  the  cup  of  fire,  like  their  brothers,  their 
foemen,  before  them. 

Sorrow  and  pride  in  his  soul  struggled ;  he  suffered, 
and  spoke  not.) 

Pain  possessed  the  field,  and  the  smoke-veil  settled 
upon  it; 

Yet  underneath  the  cloud,  as  a  strong  wave  under 
the  sea-mist, 

Rolled  the  lessening  line,  steadily,  steadily  onward. 

Rifle-bolt,    round-shot,    and   shell,    from    the   right, 

from  the  left  of  them  raking, 
Buzzing  and  screaming  and  bursting,  harrowed  the 

ranks  of  them  redly; 
Strangely  the  Centre  was  silent, — the  Centre,  and 

eyes  of  the  captains 
Fixed,  in  the  storm,  on  the  landmark,  the  dark  little 

cluster  of  oak-trees 
Faintly  and  fitfully  seen,  and  the  low  stone  wall 

through   the  smoke-veil. 
Mingled  anon  in  the  whirl  the  whistle  and  whip  of 

the  bullets 
Sped    from   the   sharpshooters'   rifles;   anon   in   the 

iron  confusion, 
Musketry  crashed  on  the  flank;  and  now  on   the 

breast  of  the  column 
25 


Flamed  the  canister-fire  from  the  gunners  of  Hays 

and  of  Gibbon. 
Blending,  the  sheeted  blaze  of  the  heavily-volleying 

muskets 
Suddenly    fringed    the   front,    from    the    regiments 

crouching  expectant: 
Almost  with   awe   they  awaited   the  furious  onset 

of  foemen 
Tried  in  the  five-fold  fire,  and  from  hell  undaunted 

emerging. 

Waited  not  long:  with  the  crash  of  answering  vol 
ley  for  volley, 

Raising  the  yell  of  the  charge,  wild  as  the  howl 
of  the  wolf-pack, 

Surged  up  out  of  the  smoke  the  first  of  the  lean 
tanned  faces, 

Teeth  half-bared  as  in  joy,  and  the  sunken  eyes 
savagely  gleaming 

Under  the  old  gray  brims  and  the  slant  of  the 
battered  visors. 

Man  to  man  at  last! 

In  the  grip  and  the  sway  of  the  wrestle 
Springing    the    regiments    clinched,    flinging    away 

their  formation, 
Red-blind,  sobbing  for  breath,  mad  in  the  terrible 

mellay, 
Mad  for  the  blood-bright  flags,  for  the  star-crossed 

flags  of  the  Southland, 
Borne  on  the  crest  of  the  wave  through  the  broken 

lines  of  the  Union — 
Broken 

Again    to    close;    brief   was    the    desperate 
triumph ! 

26 


Happy  the  Southron  who  died  as  cheering  he  planted 
his  colors, 

Passed  on  the  crest  of  the  wave  as  it  curved  to  the 
crash  of  its  falling! 

Happy,  not  knowing  defeat,  Garnett,  the  gallant, 
and  happy 

Armistead  leaping  the  wall,  lifting  his  cap  on  his 
sword-point, 

Smiting  his  hand  on  the  cannon,  and  suddenly  sink 
ing  across  it! 

Not  for  them  the  crawl  of  the  sick  slow  days  of  the 
captive, 

Torture  of  wounds,  nor  bruit  of  the  perishing  cause 
that  they  fought  for — 

Rather  swift  conquest  of  Peace,  and  to  enter  the 
City  of  Silence! 

Not  for  them  be  sorrow;  but  sorrow  for  such  men 
as  haply, 

Flung  on  the  flag  of  the  South  as  it  burst  through 
the  line  of  the  Union, 

Fell,  and  died  in  their  doubt,  and  knew  not  the 
sweep  of  the  darkness 

Over  their  faces  upturned  was  the  passing  of  Vic 
tory's  garment! 

Victory!  Shattered  supports  reeled  on  the  right, 
and  rolled  backward. 

Islanded,  closed  in  the  copse,  lost,  without  hope,  the 
Virginian 

Doggedly  loaded  once  more,  and  the  Tennessean  be 
side  him; 

Thus  had  they  chosen  to  die,  each  dealing  death  in 
his  dying. 

Sullen,  some  bowed  them  to  fate,  waved  the  white 
sign  of  surrender, 

27 


Droopingly  trailed  to  the  rear  with  the  bayonet- 
glitter  to  guard  them; 

Brokenly  over  the  plain  receded  the  sorrowful  rem 
nant, 

Choosing  retreat  through  fire. 

Even  so,  dragged  back  to  the  ocean, 

So  have  you  seen  on  the  shore,  reluctant,  and  leav 
ing  behind  it 

Swathes  of  the  dark-red  weed,  and  the  beaten  foam, 
and  the  leaping 

Gasping  silver  life  of  the  deep,  and  the  tragical 
driftwood, 

Some  great  wave  withdrawn,  at  the  turn  of  the 
tide,  from  the  floodmark. 

Sad  it  seethes  back  to  the  sea. 

That  was  the  turn  of  the  war-tide, 
Ebb  of  the  hope  of  the  South,  end  of  the  Battle  of 
Battles ! 

VIII 

Noon  of  the  night  was  come;    and  over  the  field 

sacrificial, 
Over  the  trampled  corn,  and  the  broken  trees,  and 

the  horror, — 
Horror  of  soulless  pain  of  the  beasts  that  perish 

unknowing, 
Horror  of  human  ruin,  the  shattered  sheaths  of  the 

spirit, 
Horror  men  pray  to  forget,  and  the  tongue  refuses 

to  tell  it, — 
Now  was  the  taintless  light  of  the  large  moon  shed 

out  of  heaven, 


Glory   unchanged   as   the   Face   of   the   Father  of 
Lights,  to  whom  upward 

Gropes  the  groaning  world. 

I 
On  the  sweet  summer  grass  in  the  moonlight, 

Long,  by  the  tent  of  his  leader,  a  watcher  lay  pa 
tiently  waiting, 

Waiting  the   great  Gray  Captain,  so  many  times 
hailed  as  the  victor 

On  those  fields  foregone;    and  the  far-away  cities 
had   feared   him. 

Ever   with   wild   lost   cry   the   whippoorwill   cried 
in  the  woodland. 

Late,  through  the  light  of  the  moon,  and  the  flick 
ering  shadow  of  branches, 

Lee  came  riding  alone,  the  beloved  magnanimous 
chieftain, 

All  alone  with  defeat  in  the  lucent  night  and  the 
silence. 

Slowly  he  rode,  as  one  who  rides  by  the  bier  of  a 
soldier, 

Hearing  the  muffled  drums  and  the  sob  of  a  martial 
sorrow ; 

Slowly  he  rode,  with  downcast  head,  and  the  deep 
moon-shadow 

Lay  underneath  his  brows.     At  the  last,  from  his 
horse,  overwearied, 

Hardly  he  might  dismount;    on  the  saddle  heavily 
flinging 

One  lax  arm,  he  stood  awhile  without  word  to  the 
other ; 

Moveless,  horse  and  man,  as  if  by  the  art  of  the 
sculptor 

Wrought  in  enduring  bronze  for  an  everlasting  re 
membrance. 


29 


Still    in   his   brain,    unbidden,    labored   the   pitiless 

hammers 
Forging  the  things  to  be;    and  he  saw  the  train  of 

the  wounded, 

Mile  upon  mile  of  moan,  waggon  to  waggon  suc 
ceeding, 
Crawl  like  a  crippled  snake  painfully  toward   the 

'Potomac ; 
Saw  his  crippled  Cause,  as  she  dragged  her  way  in 

the  distance 
Dim,  through  fields  of  fire  to  a  last  sad  field  of 

surrender. 
— Memory,  passionate,  proud,  sprang  of  a  sudden 

resurgent ;     \ 

Swiftly  he  lived  again  the  day,  and  beheld  his  Vir 
ginians 
Splendidly  sweep  to  the  shock  that  the  land  shall 

remember   forever ; 
Flashed  the  ardent 'eyes,  and  the  spell  of  his  silence 

was  broken. 
Proudly  he  spoke  of  the  charge,   in   a  voice   that 

deepened  and  trembled 
Naming  dear  names  of  the  dead ;  then  turned  to  the 

task  of  the  living, 
Motioned  to  enter  the  tent,  and  delivered  the  trust 

of  the  morrow. 

So  the  spark  of  pride,  in  the  heart  of  the  leader  be 
loved, 

Kindled  a  fresh,  false  hope;  and  he  sat  by  the  flare 
of  the  candle 

Planning  the  morrow's  course,  and  retrieval,  if 
haply  it  might  be. 

(Under  the  same  clear  moon,  by  the  flow  of  the 
far  Mississippi, 

30 


Grant  was  waking  too,  the  invincible  taciturn  sol 
dier 

Chosen  of  fate;  in  his  tent,  by  the  candle-light 
feeble  and  fitful, 

Writing  the  final  terms  of  the  longed-for  surrender 
of  Vickshurg.) 

Stars  swept  on,  meanwhile,  in  their  still,  predes 
tinate  pathways; 

Mornward  wheeled  the  world;  and  Time,  inex 
haustible  Mother, 

Bore  to  us  once  again  the  Day  of  the  birth  of  a 
Nation 

Sprung  from  the  life-blood  of  heroes,  and  conse 
crated  to  Freedom. 

Guns  of  the  Gettysburg  heights,  we  hear  you  as  out 

of  the  distance: 
Shall  we  not  understand?    Ye  spake,  in  your  awful 

contending, 
Words  ye  spake   through   the  cloud,   with   austere 

oracular  voices, 
Mighty  reverberant  watchwords  of  Titan-forces  in 

conflict : 
Crying,  "The  sundered  stars!"  and  replying  "The 

heavens  in  their  clusters, 

Led  in  the  lines  of  law,  and  linked  in  their  differ 
ing  glory 
Star  unto  star  to  the  end,  until  God  folds  them 

up  as  a  vesture!" 
Crying,  "Fit  rule  of  the  Few,  and  a  serfdom  meet 

for  the  Many!" 
Thundering  out  of  the  smoke,  as  the  Voice  on  the 

summit  of  Sinai, — 
Then  on  the  great  Third  Day,  when  the  trumpet 

was  loud,  and  the  lightnings 

31 


Leaped  in  the  mount,  and  the  people  fell  down  at 
the  Voice  of  Jehovah, — 

Thundering  out  of  the  smoke  with  the  final  august 
proclamation : 

"Nay!  but  the  larger  Hope,  and  the  limitless  fu 
ture  of  Manhood!" 

(Nathless  a  nation  elect,  a  people  led  forth  out  of 

bondage, 
Led  of  the  cloud  and  led  of  the  fire,  and  upheld  in 

the  battle, 
Borne  upon  wings  of  eagles,  and  saved  in  the  midst 

of  the  waters, 
Made  to   them   gods  of   gold,   even   there,   in   the 

desert  of  Sinai.) 

Guns  of  the  Gettysburg  heights,  we  hear  you  as 
out  of  the  distance: 

Cease  not  to  roll,  vast  Echoes!  Reverberate  solemn, 
immortal ! 

Speak  to  us  out  of  the  past  of  the  splendor  of 
valor  triumphant, 

Speak  of  the  splendor  of  valor  transcending  defeat, 
of  the  manhood 

Tried  to  the  utmost,  and  true  to  some  lofty  and  ul 
timate  brightness 

Secretly  set  above  self:  O  speak,  that  we  too  in 
our  measure, — 

Fallen  on  diverse  days,  far  otherwise  tempted  and 
tested, — 

Work  the  Eternal  Will,  in  the  chaos  a  force  of  sal 
vation, 

Motes  of  the  dust  as  it  streams,  yet  touched  with 
the  light  of  God's  purpose! 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 

February  12,  1909 

I 

The  centuries  pass,  yea  as  a  dream  they  pass. 

Nations  and  races,  with  all  that  they  have  sown, 

Sink  as  the  prairie-grass, 

By  the  invisible  scythe  silently  mown. 

The  wind  breathes  over  them,  and  the  place  thereof 

Knows  them  no  more. 

But  the  unsounded  sky  still  broods  above, 

Blue  ocean  without  shore, 

Eternal  in  its  breadth  and  depth  and  fire  of  love. 

So  the  o'erbrooding  Soul,  purely  ablaze, 

Full-flooded  with  the  light  of  God, 

Outlasts  Man's  body  and  all  his  works  and  ways, 

Outlasts  this  little  earth  whereon  he  trod. 

II 

We  come  not,  then,  to  praise 

That  which  transcends  our  praises,  but  to  crave 

The  light  of  one  great  soul,  kind  as  the  sky, 

Upon  these  later  days, — 

Not  like  the  simpler  time  gone  by, 

But  set  with  snares  of  sense  and  ease, 

And  crowded  with  poor  phantom  flatteries 

That  serve  us,  and  enslave. 

We  come,  forgetting  for  a  while 

Our  million-peopled  cities,  pile  on  pile 

Upsoaring  starry-windowed  in  the  night 

To  perilous  Babel-height; 

We  come,  forgetting  all  our  new-found  powers, 

33 


The  magic  of  the  mastery  that  is  ours, 

The  shoes  of  swiftness  we  may  lightly  wear, 

And  that  fresh-captived  Ariel  of  the  air, 

All,  all  that  makes  Man's  face  to  shine 

With  pride  of  conquest,  flushing  him  as  wine, — 

We  come,  forgetting  all,  a  little  while 

To  look  in  Lincoln's  eyes, 

So  loving-sad,  so  kindly-wise; 

To  stand,  as  judged,  before  his  patient  smile; 

Until  his  large  mould  shames  us,  and  we  know 

We  are  as  children,  yet  have  hope  to  grow, 

Since  this  may  be  the  stature  of  a  man. 

Ill 

Strangely  his  life  began, 

Rough-cradled  in  the  savage  wood. 

Haply  our  foolish  softness  grieves 

O'er  much  that  he  found  good, 

The  hut  of  logs,  the  bed  of  leaves. 

By  the  faint  candle,  or  the  winter's  fire, 

He  groped  to  his  desire, 

The  long,  lean,  sallow,  knowledge-hungry  lad, 

Deerskin  or  homespun  clad. 

Slow-stumbling  upward,  in  good  time  he  grew 

To  that  just  man  his  little  city  knew, 

His  plain,  persuasive  speech 

Shaped  by  an  instinct  none  could  ever  teach, 

Savoring  of  honest  earth,  and  sharp  with  wilding 

jest. 

Then  came  his  country's  call. 
Humble  and  hesitant,  in  doubt  and  dread, 
And  stooping  that  tall  head 
Black-ruffled  like  the  eagle's  crest, 
He  passed  up  to  the  highest  place  of  all. 

34 


IV 

Ah,  who  shall  tell  the  tale  of  those  wild  years, 

Of  pride  and  grief,  of  blood  and  tears? 

The  horror  and  the  splendor  and  the  sorrow, 

The  marching-songs  of  midnight,  the  sick  fears 

Of  every  fateful  morrow? 

Sometimes  a  waft  of  song,  a  random  strain, 

Suddenly  lifts  a  curtain  in  the  brain: 

Some  sweet  old   homesick  soldier-ballad,   one 

Beloved  of  many  a  sunburnt  longing  son 

Of  Michigan  or  Maine, 

Or  that  light  laughing  tune  wherewith  the  South 

Fifed     her    boy-soldiers    blithe     to     the    cannon's 

mouth, — 

Suddenly  all  is  real  once  more, 
The  hoping,  the  despairing, 
The  pity  and  the  passion  and  the  daring, 
And  all  the  agony  of  the  Brother- War! 


Each  bore  his  burden:  but  he  all  burdens  bore, 

Whose  sad  heart  folded  all  the  sufferers  in; 

While  with  a  master's  steady  hand  he  played, 

Mournful  but  undismayed, 

That  giant  game  where  it  was  pain  to  win. 

Ah,  pain  to  win,  but  double  death  to  lose! 

He  saw  the  end,  he  knew  the  thing  at  stake 

Was  Manhood's  captain-jewel:  he  could  not  choose 

But  play   the   grim   game  out,   though   that   great 

heart  should  break. 
He  smiled,  as  he  had  need 
To  keep  him  sane: 

Sad  Lincoln  laughed!  on  mountain-side  or  plain 
Not  any  soldier  did  a  braver  deed. 
35 


VI 

Last,  all  his  duty  done, — 

All  the  dark  bondmen  freed, 

The  long-sought  leader  found,  the  piteous  victory 

won, — 

Arrived  for  him  one  hour  of  April  sun 
Wherein  he  breathed  free  as  the  forest  again, 
In  glad  goodwill  to  men 
Nursing  some  vast  forgiveness  in  his  mind. 
Then — all  turned  blank  and  blind. 
Dare  we  remember  the  tragic  lilac-time 
Crimsoned  with  that  mad  crime? 
Nay,  hush !    Ye  have  heard  how  sacrifice  must  close 
The  supreme  service;  'tis  the  way  God  chose. 

VII 

Ah,  haply  we,  the  native-born, 

And  sprung  of  grandsires  native  too, 

Proud  of  soul  this  stately  morn 

Would  with  his  fame  one  race,  one  land  indue; 

Would  claim  him  ours,  and  ours  alone, 

Flesh  of  our  flesh,  bone  of  our  bone, 

Inseparably  our  own! 

Ours  by  the  English  name, 

And  that  old  England  whence  his  forebears  came, 

And  that  dear  English  of  his  tongue  and  pen; 

Mightier  successor  of  our  most  mighty  men; 

Ours,  by  his  birth  beneath  our  western  sky, 

Ours,  by  the  flag  he  died  to  save, 

Ours,  by  the  home-fields  of  his  labor,  and  by 

The  home-earth  of  his  grave! 

VIII 

But  hark!  as  if  some  league-long  barrier  broke 
To  let  wide  waters  in  tumultuouslv. 
36 


I  hear  the  voices  of  the  outland  folk 

From  sea  to  sea — yea,  rolling  over-sea: 

"You  shall  not  limit  his  large  glory  thus, 

You  shall  not  mete  his  greatness  with  a  span! 

This  man  belongs  to  us, 

Gentile  and  Jew,  Teuton  and  Celt  and  Russ 

And  whatso  else  we  be! 

This  man  belongs  to  Man! 

And  never,  till  a  flood  of  love  efface 

The  hard  distrusts  that  sever  race  from  race, 

Comes  his  true  jubilee! 

Never,  till  all  the  wars, 

Yea,  even  the  noble  wars  that  strive  to  peace, 

With  all  the  thunder  of  all  the  drums  shall  cease, 

And  all  the  booming  guns  on  all  the  brother-shores; 

Never,  till  that  worst  strife  of  every  day, 

More  bitter-sordid  than  the  clash  of  steel, 

By  some  new  solving  word  our  lips  may  learn  to 

say, 

Be  wholly  done  away, 

Deep-drowned  in  brotherhood,  quenched  in  the  com 
mon  weal, 

Ah,  never,  till  every  spirit  shall  stand  up  free, 
Comes  the  great  Liberator's  jubilee!" 


37 


GREENCASTLE  JENNY 

A    BALLAD    OF    'SIXTY-THREE 

Oh,  Greencastle  streets  were  a  stream  of  steel 

With  the  slanted  muskets  the  soldiers  bore, 
And  the  scared  earth  muttered  and  shook  to  feel 

The  tramp  and  the  rumble  of  Longstreet's  Corps ; 
The  bands  were  blaring  "The  Bonny  Blue  Flag," 

And  the  banners  borne  were  a  motley  many; 
And  watching  the  gray  column  wind  and  drag 

Was  a  slip  of  a  girl — we'll  call  her  Jenny. 

• 

A  slip  of  a  girl — what  needs  her  name? — 

With  her  cheeks  aflame  and  her  lips  aquiver, 
As  she  leaned  and  looked  with  a  loyal  shame 

At  the  steady  flow  of  the  steely  river: 
Till  a  storm  grew  black  in  the  hazel  eyes 

Time  had  not  tamed,  nor  a  lover  sighed  for; 
And  she  ran  and  she  girded  her,  apron-wise, 

With  the  flag  she  loved  and  her  brothers  died  for. 

Out  of  the  doorway  they  saw  her  start 

(Pickett's  Virginians  were  marching  through), 
The  hot  little  foolish  hero-heart 

Armored  with  stars  and  the  sacred  blue. 
Clutching  the  folds  of  red  and  white 

Stood  she  and  bearded  those  ranks  of  theirs, 
Shouting  shrilly  with  all  her  might, 

"Come  and  take  it,  the  man  that  dares!" 

Pickett's  Virginians  were  passing  through; 

Supple  as  steel  and  brown  as  leather, 
Rusty  and  dusty  of  hat  and  shoe, 

Wonted  to  hunger  and  war  and  weather; 
38 


Peerless,  fearless,  an  army's  flower! 

Sterner  soldiers  the  world  saw  never, 
Marching  lightly,  that  summer  hour, 

To  death  and  failure  and  fame  forever. 

Rose  from  the  rippling  ranks  a  cheer; 

Pickett  saluted,  with  bold  eyes  beaming, 
Sweeping  his  hat  like  a  cavalier, 

With  his  lion  locks  in  the  warm  wind  streaming. 
Fierce  little  Jenny!  her  courage  fell, 

As  the  firm  lines  flickered  with  friendly  laughter, 
And  Greencastle  streets  gave  back  the  yell 

That  Gettysburg  slopes  gave  back  soon  after. 

So  they  cheered  for  the  flag  they  fought 

With  the  generous  glow  of  the  stubborn  fighter, 
Loving  the  brave  as  the  brave  man  ought, 

And  never  a  finger  was  raised  to  fright  her: 
So  they  marched,  though  they  knew  it  not, 

Through  the  fresh  green  June  to  the  shock  in 
fernal, 
To  the  hell  of  the  shell  and  the  plunging  shot, 

And    the    charge    that    has   won    them    a   name 
eternal. 

And  she  felt  at  last,  as  she  hid  her  face, 

There  had  lain  at  the  root  of  her  childish  daring 
A  trust  in  the  men  of  her  own  brave  race, 

And  a  secret  faith  in  the  foe's  forbearing. 
And  she  sobbed,  till  the  roll  of  the  rumbling  gun 

And  the  swinging  tramp  of  the  marching  men 
Were  a  memory  only,  and  day  was  done, 

And  the  stars  in  the  fold  of  the  blue  again. 

( Thank  God  that  the  day  of  the  sword  is  done, 
And  the  stars  in  the  fold  of  the  blue  again!} 
39 


BY  THE  BLOCKHOUSE  ON  THE  HILL 

A  Ballad  of  'Ninety-Eight 

The  soul  of  the  fair  young  man  sprang  up 

From  the  earth  where  his  body  lay, 
And  he  was  aware  of  a  grim  dark  soul 

Companioning   his  way. 

"Who  are  you,  brother?"  the  fair  soul  said; 

"We  wing  together  still!" 

And    the   soul    replied,    that   was   swart    and    red, 
"The  spirit  of  him  who  shot  you  dead 

By  the  blockhouse  on  the  hill. 

"Your  men  and  you  on  the  crest  were  first, 

And  the  last  foe  left  was  I ; 
In  the  crackle  of  rifles  I  dropped  and  cursed, 
Lightning-struck  as  the  cheer  outburst 

And  the  hot  charge  panted  nigh. 

"You  saw  me  writhe  at  the  side  of  the  trench: 

You  bade — I  know  not  what: 
With   one  last  gnash,  with  one  last  wrench, 

I  sped  my  last,  sure  shot. 

"The  thing  that  lies  on  the  sodden  ground 
Like  a  wrack  of  the  whirlwind's  track, 

Your  men  have  made  of  the  body  of  me, — 
But  they  could  not  call  you  back! 

"In  that  black  game  I  won,  I  won! 

But  had  you  worked  your  will, 
Speak  now  the  shame  that  you  would  have  done 

By  the  blockhouse  on  the  hill!" 

40 


"God  judge  my  men!"  said  the  fair  young  soul; 

"He  knows  you  tried  them  sore. 
Had  He  given  me  power  to  bide  an  hour 

I   had  wrought  that  they  forbore. 

"I  bade  them,  ere  your  bullet  brought 

This  swift,  this  sweet  release, 
To  bear  your  body  out  of  the  fire 

That  you  might  pass  in  peace." 

Said  the  grim  dark  soul,  "Farewell,  farewell, 

Farewell  'twixt  you  and  me, 
Till  they  set  red  Judas  loose  from  hell 

To  kneel  at  the  Lord  Christ's  knee!" 

"Not  so,  not  so,"  said  the  fair  young  soul,. 

"But  reach  me  out  your  hand: 
We  two  will  kneel  at  the  Lord  Christ's  knee, 
And  He  that  was  hanged  on  the  cruel  tree 

Will   remember  and   understand. 

"We  two  will  pray  at  the  Lord  Christ's  knee 

That  never  on  earth  again 
The  breath  of  the  hot  brute  guns  shall  cloud 

The  sight  in  the  eyes  of  men!" 

The  clean  stars  came  into  the  sky; 

The  perfect  night  was  still; 
Yet  rose  to  heaven  the  old  blood-cry, 

By  the  blockhouse  on  the  hill. 


THE  ADMIRAL'S  STORY 

This  the  Admiral  told, 

The  Admiral  early-old, 

Gentle,  and  tragic-eyed, 

The  year  before  he  died; 

Told  to  the  lads  of  the  street, 

At  the  Settlement  where  they  meet, 

Jake  and  Patsy  and  Pete, 

Sons  of  the  lean  East  Side. 

Eyes  of  the  Irish  blue, 

Jewel-bright  eyes  of  the  Jew, 

Stared  at  him,  wonder-wide, 

As  he  stood  there  blanched  and  frail, 

Telling  a  world-known  tale 

With  a  look  that  was  far  away. 

Some  that  were  once  as  they, 

Aliens,  lads  of  the  street, 

Served  with  the  great  gray  fleet 

On  Santiago  Day. 

They  looked  upon  him  then 

With  eyes  that  did  not  swerve, 

Gravely;  they  too  were  men; 

Haply  they  too  might  serve! 

Sunday  it  was,  he  said ; 

The  warm  sky  overhead 

Bright  blue,  without  a  fleck; 

And  the  flagship  steaming  east 

To  Shafter  at  Siboney, 

With  the  Admiral  on  her  deck. 

Westward  the  Morro  lay, 

Seven  long  miles  at  least. 

(Each  in  her  station  right, 

The  gray  ships  ranged  in  a  ring; 


Slender  the  Spaniard's  chance  for  flight! 
So  grim  birds  on  a  poising  wing 
Threaten  a  wounded  beast.) 

Suddenly  burst  from  the  Morro  bluff 

One  round,  cloud-white  puff! 

Nobody  felt  a  doubt: 

The  Spaniard  was  coming  out, 

And  the  Admiral  seven  miles  east — 

Seven  long  miles  at  least! 

(Ah,   fate's  master-stroke, 

Irony  royal-rare! 

After  the  long  blockade 

And  the  patient  plans  well  laid, 

The  search-light's  sleepless  glare 

And  the  growl  of  the  cannonade — 

The  whole  fleet  bid  to  the  battle-feast, 

And  the  Admiral  seven  miles  east!) 

Forth  from  the  channel  they  came, — 

Adventure  of  despair! — 

Each  stately  and  splendid  name 

Foredoomed  to  thunder  and  flame, 

Foredoomed  to  ruin  and  fame, 

But  the  Admiral  was  not  there! 

He  saw  from  afar  his  ships  close  in, 

The  smoke-veils  thicken,  the  chase  begin, 

(And    O   for  wings!  sighed    the   Admiral's   heart, 

As  the  flagship  followed,  apart.) 

"Then  it  was,  as  we  speeded  west, 
Just  as  the  flagship  came  abreast 
Of  the  poor  Theresa  there,  on  the  beach, 
And  the  Almirante  Oquendo,  each 
Wrecked  and  ablaze,"  he  said, 
"We  saw  on  the  seaward  side, 
All  alone  in  the  waters  wide, 
43 


Rising  and  falling,  the  round  black  head 
Of  a  Spanish  sailor  as  good  as  dead, 
Fighting  death  in  the  sea. 

"Strange  it  seemed  when  the  strife 
Shrank  to  a  single  man, 
Fighting  alone  for  his  life! 
One  of  the  flagship's  crew 
A  second  stood  at  a  loss, 
Then  leaped  and  shouted  and  ran 
And  reached  and  lifted  and  threw 
The  desk  with  the  wooden  cross 
Where  the  chaplain  used  to  read. 
He  hurled  it  over  the  side. 
'Dago,  cling  to  the  Cross 
And  you  shall  be  saved!'  he  cried. 
And  the  thing  was  so  indeed. 

"Strange,  how  the  terrible  battle-strain 

Goes  like  wine  to  the  brain! 

Those  were   the  words  we   heard   him   speak, 

With  a  twitch  of  his  leathern  cheek. 

Did  he  jest?  would  his  own  soul  know? 

'Dago,  cling  to  the  Cross 

And  you  shall  be  saved!'  he  cried; 

And  indeed  the  thing  was  so." 

This  the  Admiral  told 
To  the  boys  of  alien  race, 
Each  eager,  sparkling  face 
Insistently  outthrust 
To  hear  and  to  behold; 
He,  robbed  of  his  desire, 
Gentle  and  blanched  and  frail, 
War's  martyr,  ashen-pale, 
Burnt  brittle  in  that  fire, — 
And  now  a  long  time  dust. 
44 


DEATH  AFTER  WAR 

Gone  the  Red  Harvester,  with  heaped-up  wain 
Darkening    against    the    blood-bright    sky;    yet 
lingers 

The  lone,  gaunt  Gleaner  on  the  twilight  plain, 
Blind-gathering  with  the  clutch  of  hungry  fingers. 


THE  RIDDLE  OF  WRECK 

Dark  hemlocks,  seventy  and  seven, 
High  on  the  hill-slope  sigh  in  dream, 

With  plumy  heads  in  heaven; 

They  silver  the  sunbeam. 

One  broken  body  of  a  tree, 

Stabbed   through   and  slashed   by  lightning  keen, 

Unsouled,  and  grim  to  see, 

Hangs  o'er  the  hushed  ravine. 

A  hundred  masts,  a  hundred  more, 
Crowd  close  against  the  sunset-fires. 

Their  late  adventure  o'er, 

They  mingle  with  the  spires. 

But  one  is  lying  prone,  alone, 

Where  gleaming  gulls  to  seaward  sweep, 

White  sand  of  burial  blown 

In  sheets  about  its  sleep. 

When  lightning  's  leashed,  and  sea  is  still, 
Ye  sacrificial  mysteries  dread, 

Scapegoats  of  shore  and  hill, 

Your  riddle  may  be  read. 


THE  COMMON  STREET 

The  common  street  climbed  up  against  the  sky, 
Gray  meeting  gray ;   and  wearily  to  and  fro 
I  saw  the  patient,  common  people  go, 
Each  with  his  sordid  burden  trudging  by. 
And  the  rain  dropped;    there  was  not  any  sigh 
Or  stir  of  a  live  wind;    dull,  dull  and  slow 
All  motion ;   as  a  tale  told  long  ago 
The  faded  world;    and  creeping  night  drew  nigh. 

Then  burst  the  sunset,  flooding  far  and  fleet, 
Leavening  the  whole  of  life  with  magic  leaven. 
Suddenly  down  the  long  wet  glistening  hill 
Pure  splendor  poured — and  lo!  the  common  street, 
A  golden  highway  into  golden  heaven, 
With  the  dark  shapes  of  men  ascending  still. 


CALNAN'S  CHRISTMAS 

When  you  hear  the  fire-gongs  beat  fierce  along  the 

startled  street, 

See  the  great-limbed  horses  bound,  and  the  gleam 
ing  engine  sway, 
And  the  driver  in  his  place,  with  his  fixed,  heroic 

face, 

Say  a  prayer  for  Calnan's  sake — he  that  died  on 
Christmas  day! 

Cling!    Cling!    Each  to  his  station! 
Clang!    Clang!    Quick  to  clear  the  way! 

(Christ  keep  the  soldiers  of  salvation, 
Fighting  nameless  battles  in  the  war  of  every  day!) 

In  the  morning,  blue  and  mild,  of  the  Mother  and 

the  Child, 
While  the  blessed  bells  were  calling,  thrilled  the 

summons  through  the  wire; 
In  the  morning,  blue  and  mild,  for  a  woman  and  a 

child 

Died  a  man  of  gentle  will,  plunging  on  to  fight 
the  fire. 

Ring,  swing,  bells  in  the  steeple! 
Ring  the  Child  and  ring  the  Star,  as  sweetly  as  ye 

may! 

Ring,  swing,  bells,  to  tell  the  people 
God's  good  will  to  earthly  men,  the  men  of  every 
day! 

"Thirty-four"  swung  out  agleam,  with  her  mighty, 

bounding  team; 

Horses'  honor  pricked  them  on,  and  they  leaped 
as  at  a  goad; 

48 


Jimmy  Calnan  in  his  place,  with  his  clean-cut  Irish 

face, 

Iron  hands  upon  the  reins,  eyes  a-strain  upon  the 
road. 

Clang!    Clang!    Quick  to  clear  the  way! 
(Sweetly  rang,  above  the  clang,  the  bells  of  Christ 
mas  day.) 

Tearing,  plunging  through  the  din,  scarce  a  man 

can  hold  them  in; 
None   on   earth   could   pull    them   short:    Mary 

Mother,  guard  from  harm 

Yonder  woman  straight  ahead,  stony-still  with  sud 
den  dread, 

And  the  little  woman-child,  with  her  waxen  child 
in  arm! 

Oh,   God's  calls,   how  swift   they   are!      Oh,    the 

Cross  that  hides  the  Star! 
Oh,  the  fire-gong  beating  fierce  through  the  bells 

of  Christmas  day! 
Just  a  second  there  to  choose,  and  a  life  to  keep  or 

lose  — 

To  the  curb  he  swung  the  horses,  and  he  flung 
his  life  away! 

Ring,  swing,  bells  in  the  steeple! 
Ring  the   Star  and  ring  the  Cross,   for  Star  and 

Cross  are  one! 

Ring,  swing,  bells,  to  tell  the  people 
God  is  pleased  with  manly  men,  and  deeds  that  they 
have  done! 


49 


GUION 

Is  it  so  hard  to  die  in  the  glory  and  fury  of  fight  ? 
Sweet  is  the  death  for  the  flag — splendid  the  death 

when  Fame 
Snatches    the    sinking    torch,    and    lifts    it    alive, 

alight ! — 
Let  us  remember  his  name  who  drank  of  a  cup  of 

flame 

Silently  pledging  Duty,  and  would  not  shirk 
Death  in  the  plain  day's  work. 

Guion  was  running  the  lift 

There  at  the  doomed  hotel 

When  the  grim  chance  befell. 

Twenty  years,  day  out,  day  in, 

Still  the  same  had  the  day's  work  been: 

Up  and  down,  steady  and  swift, 

At  the  thrill  of  the  calling  bell. 

Boy  and  man,  and  still  the  same; 

Then — the  wild  moment  came. 

Fire  and  fear,  and  the  rush,  and  the  gush  of  the 

choking  smoke; 
Cries,   and   the  hoarse  command,  and   the  engine's 

clanging  stroke; 

Still,  at  the  well-known  call,  in  the  wonted  way, 
Up  and  down,  steady  and  swift, 
Guion  kept  running  the  lift; 
Many  and  many  a  life  is  his  gift 
That  had  else  gone  out  that  day. 

How  it  billowed,  the  surge  of  black 
On  the  delicate  springtime  sky! 
The  firemen  knew  they  were  come  to  the  end  of  it 
all,— 

50 


They  were  beaten,  the  roof  must  fall. 

Hands  laid  hold  upon  Guion:  "You  can't  go 
back!" 

But  he  answered,  "I'll  stand  by!" 

And  again  through  the  tumult — hark! 

Shrill,   oh   pitiful-shrill, 

The  throb  of  the  bell  that  summoned,  the  agony- 
thrill, 

Calling, — it  fell  on  his  soul  like  the  sting  of  a  spark. 

"One  more  trip !"  said  Guion ;  and  steady  and  swift 

Mounted  the  man  and  the  lift. 

— Save  in  the  dust  of  ruin,  that  baffles  ken, 

None  saw  Guion  again. 

Year   after   year,   when   the   great    March   sunsets 

flame, 
Let  us  remember  his  name. 


POVERTY  ROW 

Brave  old  neighbors  in  Poverty  Row, 

Why  should  we  grudge  to  dwell  with  you? 
Pinch  of  poverty  well  ye  know — 

Doubtful  dinner  and  clouted  shoe. 
Grinned  the  wolf  at  your  doors,  and  yet 

You  sang  your  songs  and  you  said  your  say. 
Lashed  to  labor  by  devil  Debt, 

All  were  manful,  and  some  were  gay. 

What,  old  Chaucer!  a  royal  jest 
Once  you  made  in  your  laughing  verse : 
"No  more  goldfinch -song  in  the  nest — 

Autumn  nest  of  the  empty  purse!" 
Master  Spenser,  your  looks  are  spare; 

Princes'  favors,  how  fleet  they  be! 
Thinking  that  yours  was  the  selfsame  fare, 

Crust  or  crumb  shall  be  sweet  to  me. 

Worshipful    Shakespeare   of    Stratford    town, 

Prosperous-portly  in  doublet  red, 
What  of  the  days  when  you  first  came  down 

To  London  city  to  earn  your  bread? 
What  of  the  lodging  where  Juliet's  face 

Startled    your   dream   with    its    Southern    glow, 
Flooding  with  splendor  the  sordid  place? 

That  was  a  garret  in  Poverty  Row! 

Many  a  worthy  has  here,  I  ween, 

Made  brief  sojourn  or  long  abode: 
Johnson,  dining  behind  the  screen; 

Goldsmith,  vagrant  along  the  road ; 
Keats,  ah,  pitiful!  poor  and  ill, 

Harassed  and  hurt,  in  his  short  spring  day; 

52 


Best  Sir  Walter,  with  flagging  quill 
Digging  the  mountain  of  debt  away. 

Needy  comrade,  whose  evil  star, 

Pallid-frowning,  decrees  you  wrong  , 
Greatly  neighbored,  in  truth,  we  are; 

Hold  your  heart  up  and  sing  your  song! 
Lift  your  eyes  to  the  book-shelf  where, 

Glorious-gilded,  a  shining  show, 
Every  man  in  his  mansion  fair, 

Dwell  the  princes  of  Poverty  Row! 


53 


THE  INN  OF  THE  STAR 

When  the  Old  Year  plods  down 
Toward  the  end  of  the  hill, 

Where  the  white  little  town 
Lies  asleep,  wonder-still, 

Then  he  mends  his  dull  pace, 
For  a  ray,  streaming  far, 

Strikes  a  gleam  on  his  face 

From  the  Inn  of  the  Star. 

Then  the  staff  is  set  by, 

And  the  shoon  from  his  feet, 
And  the  burden  let  lie, 

And  he  sitteth  at  meat; 
Old  jests  round  the  board, 

Old  songs  round  the  blaze, 
While  the  faint  bells  accord 

Like  the  souls  of  old  days. 

In  the  sweet  bed  of  peace 

He  shall  sleep  for  a  night, 
And  faith,  like  a  fleece, 

Lap  him  kindly  and  light; 
Then  the  wind,  crooning  wild, 

Mystic  music  shall  seem, 
And  the  brow  of  the  Child 

Be  a  light  through  his  dream. 

And  we,  too,  follow  down 

The  long  slope  of  the  hill: 
See,  the  white  little  Town, 

Where  it  shines,  wonder-still! 
Be    our    hopes   quenched    or    bright, 

Be  our  griefs  what  they  are, 
We  shall  sojourn  a  night 

At  the  Inn  of  the  Star. 
54 


MARINA    SINGS 
(Pericles,  Act  V ,  Sc.  i.) 

This  is  the  song  Marina  sang 

To  forlorn  Pericles: 
Silver  the  young  voice  rang. 

The  gray  beard  blew  about  his  knees, 
And   the   hair   of   his  bowed   head,   like  a  veil, 
Fell  over  his  cheeks  and  blent  with  it: 

He   knew   not   anything. 

Above  him  the  Tyrian  fold 
Of  the  curtain  billowed,  fringed  with  gold, 

As  might  beseem  a  king. 
Sunset  was  rose  on  every  sail 
That  did  along  the  far  sea  flit, 
And  rose  on  the  cedarn  deck 
Of  the  ship  that  at  anchor  swayed; 
And  the  harbor  was  golden-lit. 

He  lifted  not  his  neck 
At  the  coming  of  the  maid. 
She  swept  him  with  her  eyes, 
As  though  some  tender  wing 
Just  touched  a  bleaching  wreck 

In  sheeted  sand  that  lies; 

Then  she  began  to  sing. 

THE    SONG 

Hush,  ah  hush!  the  sea  is  kind! 
Lullaby  is  in  the  wind ; 
Grief  the  babe  forgets  to  weep, 
Lapped  and  spelled  and  laid  to  sleep : 
His  lip  is  wet  with  the  milk  of  the  spray; 
He  shall  not  wake  till  another  day. 
Ah  hush!  the  sea  is  kind! 
55 


Who  can  tell,  ah  who  can  tell, 
The  cradling  nurse's  crooned  spell? 
While  the  slumber-web  she  weaves 
Never  nursling  stirs  or  grieves: 
The  tears  that  drowned  his  sweet  eye-beams 
Are  turned  to  mists  of  rainbow  dreams. 
Ah  hush!  she  charms  us  well! 

"All  thy  hurts  I  balm  and  bind; 
All  thy  heart's  loves  thou  shalt  find!" 
Yea,  this  she  murmurs,  best  of  all : 
"It  was  not  loss  that  did  befall! 
All  thy  joys  are  put  away; 
They  shall  be  thine  another  day!" 
Ah  hush!  the  sea  is  kind! 

She  sang;   she  trembled  like  a  lyre; 
Her  pure  eyes  burned  with  azure  fire; 
About  her  lucent  brow  the  hair 
Played  like  light  flames  divine  ones  wear: 

The  maid  was  very  fair. 
But  when  she  saw  he  gave  no  heed, — 
Close-mantled  up  in  ancient  pain 

As  in  some  sad -wound  weed, 

Dumb  as  a  shape  of  stone, 

Being  years  past  all  moan, — 

She  tried  no  other  strain, 
But  softly  spake:    "Most  royal  sir!" 
He  raised  his  head  and  looked  at  her. 
So  might  a  castaway,  half  dead, 

Lift  up  his  haggard  head, 
Waked  by  the  swirl  of  sudden  rain, 

^  cool,  unhoped-for  grace, 

Against  his  tearless  face: 


And  see,  with  happy-crazed  mind, 
Upon  his  raft  a  Bright  One  stand, — 
His  love  of  youth,  her  grave  long  left  behind 
In  some  sweet-watered  land. 


57 


THE  KING'S  DIAMOND 

This  diamond  he  greets  your  wife  withal 
By  the  name  of  most  kind  hostess. 

Macbeth,  Act  II,  sc.  i. 

Duncan  the  King, — Heaven  rest  his  bier! — 

Had  a  diamond  icy-clear; 

Clear  as  ice  and  fierce  as  flame, — 

I   wot  not  whence   he  had   the   same. 

Its  fellow  was  not  in  the  land. 

It  shot  keen  shafts  of  every  hue 

On  the  old  king's  trembling  hand 

Where  the  veins  were  large  and  blue. 

A  jewel  of  price  was  that  indeed, 

Fit  to  buy  a  prince's  life; 

A  royal  gift  for  the  lady  wife 

Of  a  kinsman  bold  and  true 

Who  had  served  the  king  at  need. 

Who  was  he,  but  the  Red  Macbeth 

That  wrought  the  false  Macdonwald's  death, 

And  drave  the  sea-wolf  in  dismay, 

Sweyn  the  king  of  Norroway? 

Being  guest  to  that  great  thane, 

Ere  his  limbs  on  couch  had  lain 

Duncan  sent  that  frozen  flame 

To  Lady  Gruach,  the  gracious  dame. 

(Clear  as  ice  was  the  lady's  fame, 

A  flawless  jewel  indeed!) 

Duncan  the  king  at  Colmkill  sleeps, 
So  sound  he  will  not  turn  or  moan; 
His  slumber-draught  was  deep,  I  ween, 
Bitter-spiced  with  daggers  keen. 
It  is  the  Red  Macbeth  that  keeps 
Stern  state  upon  the  throne, 
58 


With  Gruach,   his  kind  queen. 

("Most  kind,"  the  old  King  Dunjean  said, 

Before  he  lay    in  his  last  bed.) 

The  Lady  Gruach  wears  the  crown, 
She  wears  the  glistering  golden  gown, 
But  yet  she  has  not  worn  the  ring 
That  was  the  guerdon  of  the  king. 
In  the  dark  the  diamond  lies, 
Seen  of  no  vassal's  eyes. 

Nor  any  vassal's  tongue  can  tell 

How, — when  the  spying  Day  is  sped 

And  sleeps  with  the  safe  dead ; 

When  Gruach  loosens  her  long  hair 

Midnight-black  on  her  shoulders  bare, 

And  sinks  to  the  comfort  of  despair; 

At  the  witches'  hour,  when  the  shadows  swell 

As  the  swinging  cressets  flare, 

And  the  small  swart  crickets  harp  and  harp 

On  the  tune  remembered,  torturing-sharp, 

And  the  sobbing  owlets  wake, — 

The  diamond  in  the  dark 

Draws,  draws  her,  like  the  spark 

In  the  head  of  a  deadly  snake. 

Then  will  she  sit,  and  dully  stare 
On  the  cold  diamond's  serpent-glare; 
Her  lip  is  fallen,  she  does  not  stir, 
Her  life  is  sucked  into  the  gem; 
It  is  as  though  the  Powers  malign 
Had  made  with  mystery  in  the  mine 
A  thing  to  be  like  the  soul  of  her: 
It  was  a  jest  to  them! 
All  the  light  upgathered  they 
That  might  have  been  a  sunshine  day, 
Broadcast  blessing  and  heavenly  boon, 
"  59  ' 


Peace  of  even  and  power  of  noon ,' 
Seized  the  rays  with  a  spell  unknown, 
Forced  them  into  a  core  of  fire 
Like  the  glede  of  a  covetous  desire, 
Shut  them  fast  in  the  heart  of  a  stone. 
And  hard,  and  harder  than  the  sword, 
They  made  the  crystal,  fiery-cored; 
On  steel  that  oft  had  steel  withstood 
Might  it  grave  the  word  it  would. 
A  gem  of  beauty  and  of  bale, 
A  prisoned  force  in  narrow  pale> 
Evil-perfect,  pure  of  good! 
— So  will  she  sit,  till  naked  Morn 
Peers  at  the  world  with  visage  white 
Like  a  sleeper  roused  in  fright, 
Aghast  and  most  forlorn. 

What  of  the  end?  since  end  must  be. 
She  knows  a  skilled  artificer, 
And  he  shall  set  in  a  dagger's  haft 
The  thing  that  is  like  the  soul  of  her. 
When  first  she  thought  thereon,  she  laughed, 
And  then  she  shuddered  fearfully. 
Ah,  what  if  Heaven  no  end  will  grant, 
Resolved  in  any  heats  of  wrath, 
To  that  which  for  its  symbol  hath 
The  unsubduable  adamant? 
Ah,  what  if  like  a  falling  jewel 
The  soul  whose  light  was  mocking-cruel, 
Through  gulfs  of  loss  unplummeted 
Should  fall,  and  fall,  forevermore, 
Fire  of  torment  at  its  core? 
Oh,  horrible  and  leaden  dread! 
The  grace  of  God  blot  out  our  sins! 
— -The  women  knock  at  the  chamber  door, 
The  queen  starts  up,  the  day  begins. 
60 


DEATH-TRYST 

(Shelley,  1822:     Tennyson,  1892.} 
I 

One  sailed  an  azure  sea  in  fateful  hour: 

A  Youth,  yet  age  had  touched  him,  and  he  seemed 
Lovely  and  piteous,  like  a  frosted  flower. 

A  Book  was  in  his  hand,  a  page  that  teemed 

With  joy  of  beauty.     (He  who  made  it,  slept 
Where  o'er  his  heart  the  Roman  violets  dreamed.) 

Sailing,  he  smiled;    a  tryst  his  spirit  kept; 

Thoughts  lucent-pinioned  did  as  psyches  flit 
Across  his  summer  dream;   till  on  him  swept 

The  swift  black  storm,  and  Fate  and  Death  did  sit 
Betwixt  its  cloudy  wings  as  down  it  bore; 

And  he  who  read  was  rapt  to  him  who  writ. 
Twin  stars  they  shine,  one  fame  forevermore. 

A  fire  of  funeral  blazed,  beside  the  sobbing  shore. 

II 

One  slept  a  sacred  sleep,  while  golden  lay 

Autumnal  moonlight  glorious  on  his  bed, — 
Sleep  ebbing  deathward  like  a  sea-drawn  bay. 

A  Book  was  in  his  hand,  whence  late  he  read 

Majestic  words  of  that  great  Spirit  that  still 
Doth  haunt  by  Avon  April-garlanded. 

So  sleeping,  held  he  fast  with  fixed  will 

His  Master's  Book ;   and  all  the  night  was  peace, 
Bright  peace  on  lawn  and  terrace,  dale  and  hill. 
61 


Calm  consummation,  and  most  sweet  surcease! 
That  tryst  of  sovereign  powers  Death  would  not 

wrong, 
Shattering  the  bars  with  all-too-rough  release, 

But  softly  dealt. — They  rule  in  splendor  long, 
Large  lights,  a  moon  and  sun  in  England's  heaven 
of  song. 


62 


THE  IRIS-BRIDGE 

That  morn  when  men  to  one  another  said 
"Browning  is  dead  in  Venice,"  ere  the  thrill 
Of  the  tidings  touched  us,  lo!  our  eyes  beheld 
Strange  portent  flashed  upon  the  winter  sky. 
From  hill  to  hill  the  jewel-splendid  span 
Of  the  light  rainbow  leaped,  transcendent  joy, 
The  brave  bright  delicate  bridge,  frail  as  a  flower, 
Yet  firm  enough  to  bear  the  feet  of  Hope. 
— "Browning    is    dead,"    they    told    us;    but    our 

thoughts 

Followed  along  the  aerial  sunbuilt  arch 
The  onward  quest  of  that  still  ardent  soul. 
Could  he  be  holden  of  death,  who  built  indeed, 
Flinging  his  lyric  faith  across  the  vast, 
An  iris-bridge  for  man  while  words  endure? 


DESIRE  OF  FAME 

O  unapproachable  glories  of  the  night! 
You  type  not  my  desire :  enough  for  me 
The  vanished  meteor's  immortality, 

Brief  memory  of  a  moment  touched  with  light. 


ROSE-RENT 

Life!  lordly  giver  and  gay! 

I,  for  this  manor  of  Time, 
Lightly  and  lovingly  pay 

Rent  with  the  rose  of  a  rhyme. 


THE  FRIGATE-GHOST 

Yes,  you  may  build  her  again 
As  she  was  when  she  sailed  the  sea; 
She  may  bear  the  brave  old  name, 
And  the  harbors  hail  her  the  same; 
'Tis  her  semblance,  it  is  not  she! 
She  is  gone  from  our  mortal  ken. 

I  know  not  how  or  when, 
But  her  spirit  escaped  away 
From  the  dock  and  the  dull  decay, 
From  the  uses  of  unprized  age 
And  the  changes  wrought  of  men; 
Like  a  wild  sea-bird  from  a  cage, 
Her  soul  took  flight  from  the  form 
To  the  tides  that  none  can  tame, 
To  the  restless  fields  of  her  fame, 
To  the  wet  salt  wind  and  the  storm ! 

Somewhere  she  ranges  free, 
Stately,  a  shape  of  light, 
Revisiting  leagues  of  sea 
Illumined  with  glorious  fight. 
She  hangs  like  a  lucent  cloud 
On  the  coast  where  her  guns  spoke  loud, 
In  the  gates  of  the  Moslem  proud, 
Till  the  Crescent  grew  faint  with  fright. 
Exultant  she  bounds  on  the  brine, 
Tracing  the  course  of  the  race 
When  the  -SColus  held  her  in  chase, 
And  the  Belvidere  and  the  Shannon, 
And  the  Africa,  ship-o'-the-line, 
With  another,  doomed  to  her  cannon, 
To  be  blazoned  in  flame  at  the  last, 


66 


When  the  grim  sea-duel  was  done: 
God  rest  the  souls  that  passed 
Ere  the  Guerriere's  leeward  gun! 
Ere  the  noblest  flag  on  the  sea 
Came  down  to  the  Stripes  and  Stars! 
Oh,  the  frigate-ghost,  as  she  ranges  free, 
Thrills  yet  through  her  spectral  spars! 

Aye,  the  old  pride  stirs  her  still 
As  she  sails  and  sails  at  will; 
In  her  cross-trees  memories  nestle, 
Though  she  walks  the  wave  a  ghost. 
Well  she  minds  the  wary  wrestle 
When  her  shot  poured  hot  as  lava 
On  the  shattered,  stubborn  Java, 
Off  the  dim  Brazilian  coast; 
And  she  haunts  the  moonlit  seas 
Where  her  crashing  broadsides  broke 
Through  the  drift  of  silvered  smoke 
While  she  waged  a  double  battle 
In  the  waters  Portuguese. 
Still  the  ghostly  muskets  rattle, 
And  the  old  drums  beat,  beat,  beat, 
Like  a  heart  that  will  not  die; 
And  the  old  fife  whistles  high, 
And  the  powder-scent  is  rank, 
And  she  feels  on  her  hollow  plank 
The  old,  dead  heroes'  feet! 

Ah,  never  sailor-man 
Has  seen  her  where  she  ranges, 
Escaped  from  time  and  changes 
As  only  spirits  can, 
Clear,  absolute,  and  free! 
Yet,  some  stern  hour  to  be, 
When  a  fight  is  fought  at  sea, 
67 


And  the  right  of  the  fight  is  ours, 

And  the  cause  of  the  right  is  failing, 

There  shall  rise  a  frigate  sailing, 

A  luminous  presence  paling 

Through  the  powder-cloud  where  it  lowers ; 

Pale  smoke  from  her  side  shall  break, 

Pale  faces  over  her  railing 

Shall  frown,  till  the  foemen  shake 

With  fear  and  bewildered  passion, 

Marking  her  old-time  fashion, 

In  the  turrets  of  hostile  powers; 

And  then  shall  the  rumor  run 

Like  a  lightning  from  lip  to  lip, 

And  shall  leap  from  ship  to  ship, 

While  the  wounded  gunner  reels 

Again  to  his  reeking  gun, 

Touched  with  a  magic  that  heals, 

Feeling  this  vision  remind  him 

That  the  strong  Dead  fight  behind  him: 

"  'Tis  the  ghost  of  IRONSIDES, 

Come  back  from  the  tameless  tides, 

From  the  ocean-fields  unbounded, 

Complete  with  her  scattered  spars, 

Manned  with  the  shades  of  her  tars, 

With  the  smoke  of  her  guns  surrounded, 

To  succor  the  Stripes  and  Stars!" 


68 


FAIR  ENGLAND 

White  England  shouldering  from  the  sea, 
Green  England  in  thy  rainy  veil, 

Old  island-nest  of  Liberty 
And  loveliest  Song,  all  hail! 

God  guard  thee  long  from  scath  and  grief! 

Not  any  wish  of  ours  would  mar 
One  richly  glooming  ivy-leaf, 

One  rosy  daisy-star. 

What!  phantoms  are  we,  spectre-thin, 
Unfathered,  out  of  nothing  born? 

Did  Being  in  this  world  begin 
With  blaze  of  yestermorn? 

Nay!  sacred  Life,  a  scarlet  thread, 

Through  lost  unnumbered  lives  has  run; 

No  strength  can  tear  us  from  the  dead; 
The  sire  is  in  the  son. 

Nay!  through  the  years  God's  purpose  glides, 
And  links  in  sequence  deed  with  deed; 

Hoar  Time  along  his  chaplet  slides 
Bead  after  jewel-bead. 

O  brother,  breathing  English  air! 

If  both  be  just,  if  both  be  free, 
A  lordlier  heritage  we  share 

Than  any  earth  can  be: 

If  hearts  be  high,  if  hands  be  pure, 
A  bond  unseen  shall  bind  us  still, — 

The  only  bond  that  can  endure, 
Being  welded  with  God's  will! 
69 


A  bond  unseen!  and  yet  God  speed 

The  apparent  sign,  when  He  finds  good ; 

When  in  His  sight  it  types  indeed 
That  inward  brotherhood. 

For  not  the  rose-and-emerald  bow 
Can  bid  the  battling  storm  to  cease, 

But  leaps  at  last,  that  all  may  know 
The  sign,  not  source,  of  peace. 

Oh,  what  shall  shameful  peace  avail, 
If  east  or  west,  if  there  or  here, 

Men  sprung  of  ancient  England  fail 
To  hold  their  birthright  dear? 

If  west  or  east,  if  here  or  there, 

Brute  Mammon  sit  in  Freedom's  place, 
And  judge  a  wailing  world's  despair 

With  hard,  averted  face? 

O  great  Co-heir,  whose  lot  is"  cast 
Beside  the  hearthstone  loved  of  yore! 

Inherit  with  us  that  best  Past 
That  lives  for  evermore! 

Inherit  with  us!    Lo,  the  days 

Are  evil;  who  may  know  the  end? 

Strike  hands,  and  dare  the  darkening  ways, 
Twin  strengths,  with  God  to  friend! 


70 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  RICHARD 
WATSON  GILDER 

Again   the  summer  days   beside   the  sea: 
The  billowing  of  the  russet-feathered  grass 
In  the  warm  wind;   the  shadow  of  clouds  that  sail; 
The  orange  field-flower  flaming  like  a  torch 
To  light  all  wings  of  wavering  butterflies; 
The  long  wash  of  the  everlasting  wave, 
The  same  and  not  the  same  forevermore. 
Again  the  summer  nights,  a-throb  with  stars, 
And  that  clear  Star,  the  glory  of  the  Lyre, 
White-burning,  hung  at  the  high  heart  of  heaven. 
Again  the  summer  days,  the  summer  nights, — 
All  is  as  it  hath  been. 

Nay,  not  for  those 

Who  have  felt  the  shadow  fall  of  that  strange  cloud 
Which  yet  seems  full  of  light,  the  shadow  of  death, 
Is  aught  as  it  hath  been.     The  dark  sea-line 
Solemnly  deepens,  and  the  sunset  sweeps 
With  graver  splendors  through  its  pageant-pomp. 

I  know  not  why  these  meadows,  yester-year, 
And  these  stark  pines  against  the  sunset-rose, 
And  these  young  woods  where  haply  one  beholds 
In  some  brown  pool  the  mirrored  cardinal-flower 
Lovely  and  lonely, — why  along  these  ways 
Sprang  up  so  oft  the  sudden  thought  of  him, 
A  wayside  joy;   why  memories  of  his  song 
Floated  upon  the  silvery  thistledown; 
Yet  near  he  seemed.    And  not  less  near  to-day, 
Though  all  he  loved,  and  sang  of,  gleams  through 

tears, 

Fresh-haloed  with  the  pathos  of  the  thought 
That  near  or  far  we  shall  not  see  again 
Those  luminous  eyes  whence  looked  his  lyric  soul. 
71 


Star  of  the  Lyre!  a  spirit  like  to  tln.ee, 
White-burning,  close  to  the  high  heart  of  heaven, 
We  knew;    a  spirit  as  clear,  with  ardors  pure 
Trembling  to  every  touch  of  the  divine 
Serene  sphere-music.     Such  was  he,  our  friend, 
Our  singer;  such  is  he,  though  mortal  sense 
Be  sealed. 

Now  to  his  name  I  give  this  book, 
Reverent,  as  placing  on  an  altar-stone 
A  gift;    though  slight,  not  all  unmeet — since  he 
Served  all  his  years  a  Soldier  of  the  Light : 
From  those  first  days  when  the  brave  gentle  boy, 
In  passion  of  service  for  the  land  he  loved, 
Stood  by  the  thunderous  guns  of  Gettysburg, 
To  those  last  days  of  service  not  less  true 
In  the  loud  streets  and  swarming  human  hives* 
The  clangor  and  flare,  and  all  the  civic  stress 
Of  his  beloved  city, — his  and  ours, 
Where  such  as  he  may  rear  the  City  of  Light. 


f  <£> 

01 


DATE  DUE 


PRINTED  IN  U.S.A. 


3  1210  00397  7418 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA    001  147575  3 


;    1 1  ;  H  ! 


